


Not Today

by slartbartfest



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arya/Sandor Adventures, F/M, Humor, Romance, Sisters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:25:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slartbartfest/pseuds/slartbartfest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Arya didn't leave the Hound? What if he wasn't so very injured after the inn? What if Arya stayed with him and decided that he really does love Sansa? What if together they rescue her? A response to one of the many comment-fic memes over at the sansaxsandor Live Journal community. Rated for swearing, violence and all the horrible things that Arya and Sandor do to torment each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not have the rights to any people/places/events, basically anything to do with asoiaf. They of course, belong to GRRM.

“The Hound,” she whispered, and, “ _Valar morghulis”._ Maybe he'd be dead by morning...

He wasn't. The boiling wine seemed to have done its job and Arya begrudgingly set about helping him clear their campsite. She supposed they would head for the Saltpans now, and make their way to the Vale. She had to help him atop his horse, a task made nearly impossible by his sheer size and curses thrown at her each time to managed to accidentally touch the tender flesh on his healing leg.

“You pull on that leg again girl and I'll take yours as a replacement.” They scowled at each other with silent growls. The wolf taunting the wild dog until he finally galloped off. The two unwilling companions did not speak a word until they came to the boat-house.

“Just our bloody luck,” there was a dock, but Sandor saw no boat, “Go see if there's anyone around.”

“Why do I have to go?” Arya protested.

“Because if you don't I'll beat you bloody.”

Arya was not the least bit scared. She knew he wasn't in the state to beat anything, yet alone to the point of it being bloody. Besides, she had Needle now and could probably kill him if she felt like it. Arya wasn't sure which thought surprised her the most, the fact that she wasn't afraid of the Hound or that she   
_didn't_   
feel like killing him. 

He watched her sneak around the boat-house, relieved the she-wolf did not put up much of a fight anymore. The last thing Sandor wanted to do was dismount and put pressure on his leg. He hated to admit it, but the girl had somehow managed to save his life. He had asked her for the gift of mercy but she had given him life instead.

“There's an old man inside, no one else.” Arya told him when she had returned.

“See any wine?” 

She almost laughed, “Barrels of it.”

 

\--------------------------------------

 

The old man's name was Charley, and he did not want any trouble. In fact, as soon as the Hound walked into the room, he only seemed to repeat that he didn't want any trouble. Arya was beginning to get annoyed and set herself to scout out the inside of the boat-house.

“We're not going to give bloody trouble old man,” Sandor hissed, “Now where's your boat?”

“My boy Lionel took it out to fish two days past. Not many come looking for passage these days, not many come looking at all...He should be returning soon, on the morrow I'd say. Like, I said we don't want--” 

“You don't want any trouble. I got that. Me and--” He looked around for Arya, only to find her wrist deep in a bowl of watered oats. “The wharf-rat over there need passage to the Vale.”

Charley nodded and agreed to take them to Gulltown when his son returned with their boat. He only asked that either of them not be harmed, a request Sandor was willing to make. There was no way in seven hells he could manage to fight anyone right now, even with the wolf-bitch clawing at them as well. The old man seemed reluctant but feared for his life too much to ask for their coin. If he was lucky, he might be able to scare the man into giving him some food and wine. For the first time in a long time, Sandor Clegane had stumbled upon some luck. And when they awoke in the morning, it was with full bellies and aboard a ship bound for the Vale.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Arya didn't leave the Hound? What if he wasn't so very injured after the inn? What if Arya stayed with him and decided that he really does love Sansa? What if together they rescue her?

The old man's son, Lionel, did not speak much to his passengers, much to the Hound's apparent delight. He spent his days sailing, with his lanky first mate. Arya had not bothered to learn his name, he wouldn't talk to her either. Boredom was eating up the hours; she set to practicing with Needle again, but after a while she would get tired. And the Hound would only sit there and laugh at her.

“What on earth are you doing girl? You think you can kill a man by dancing?” His laugh was rough and gravelly.

“The Braavosi can, Syrio Forel can,” She snapped, “I bet he's even killed more men than you.” She pointed Needle at him. 

He drew his own sword, “I could cut through that pin in one swipe.”

“It's not a pin! It's a sword!” Arya wanted to shove it right into his wounded leg.

The Hound laughed again and sat back down, removing his whetstone from his bag. “Here, if you're going to have a needle, at least keep it sharp enough to sew with.”

She took it from him, testing the weight in her hand. Upon hearing him chuckle again she began to clumsily slide the stone up and down the blade. Arya continued for some time, and when the Hound got up to leave, she followed him down into the bottom deck. It became their dinner routine. He struggled a bit to get into the small chair and awkward spacing around the dining table. The first mate set two bowls of stew out for them. Arya went for the wine.

“Get me a red, and a nice big glass.” 

She rolled her eyes, but did as he asked. Being with him on the boat was much better than being on the road. Though she still loathed his company, he was bringing her to her aunt Lysa and supposed she could manage for just a little longer. He threatened her much less often now and Arya suspected the diminishing pain in his leg was causing his almost tolerable nature.

“What will you do when Lady Lysa pays my ransom?” she asked him when the first mate had left.

The Hound looked up at her with an unreadable expression, a glimmer of something dangerous in his eyes. “Find my brother.”

“You're going to kill him.” She smiled, taking another sip of wine.

He grunted and looked back down at his food. They ate and drank in silence for a while. Arya spoke once more after she filled his wine cup for the third time.

“I never really wanted to kill Sansa you know.”

The Hound looked up at her again, his mouth twitched into what Arya could only describe as a twisted half smile. He downed the cup in one swig, gesturing for more. “Me either.” He mumbled quietly, starting on another cup.

Arya poured herself another cup as well, it was her third. She was beginning to feel cloudy. “Why? Did you try to?”

He shot her a hard look.

Unable to pick up on the subtle warning, she continued, “I bet she sang you...hic...Florian and Jonquil, she always shings that shtupid song.” Arya started giggling, nearly knocking her cup over. The Hound snatched her wine from her, finishing it himself.

“No more wine for you she-wolf.” Arya ignored him, reaching for the wineskin.

“That'd probably make you the Florian!” she laughed again, harder this time, nearly throwing herself atop the table in a fit. She was pulled out of her hysteria by the Hound. He lifted her up from her seat, tearing the wineskin from her hands.

“That's enough!” 

He dragged Arya to her cabin. After slamming the door shut, he could still hear her drunken laughter. Sandor would need more wine than the ship had stocked to get him through the rest of the trip if she continued going on about her bloody sister.

The little bird. He thought of her, and of her song and her hair, her eyes and her pretty face. He thought of how she felt, beneath him that night of the battle. Most of all, he thought of his cowardice and desire for her. He cursed himself for the thought, down into the deepest of the seven hells.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Arya didn't leave the Hound? What if he wasn't so very injured after the inn? What if Arya stayed with him and decided that he really does love Sansa? What if together they rescue her?

 

“Did you hit me last night?” Arya growled, Needle pointed at his throat. 

Sandor could only laugh, the little wolf's first hang-over, how precious. Though she had only fallen into two and a half cups last night, she was feeling the sting of her indulgence. She certainly deserved it, after the taunting she gave him. Stupid wolf-bitch.

“No.” He handed her a skin of water, a small mercy the girl did not earn, especially with her little knife at his throat.

“Why does my head hurt so much?” she glanced at the water, eyeing it suspiciously.

“That'd be the wine. Here. Drink this and get the hell out of my face.”

The ship was sailing at a stumbling pace. Sandor Clegane was growing restless, his brain becoming dull with mindless wondering about that took up his time above deck. Even the wolf-girl was showing signs of agitated boredom, her once precise needlework becoming a fit of angry slashes at invisible enemies. It was all very tiring to witness. Traveling with her had only reinforced his decision to never have pups of his own. 

Lionel, the captain, took his shift at the sails one afternoon, informing them they would be arriving in Gulltown at dusk. He had not seemed pleased with his passengers at all, he would not be receiving any coin from them and instead would have to sell his small surplus of salted fish to pay for the effort. Sandor could not seem to care less about the captain's situation, instead relieved to finally be able to walk on land. 

He checked on Stranger in the cargo hold, the stallion was agitated as well with being confined. The constant sway of the ship did nothing but stoke the horse's foul mood. Sandor did his best to calm the beast, and set to preparing him for their arrival. The ship could only hold one horse, so Arya would have to ride with him when they reached the road.

Before the ship docked, he pulled the girl aside, much to her apparent annoyance.

“When we get into town you're not to say a bloody word, you hear?” He shook her by her arm until she nodded, “We're headed to the Eyrie for employment. You are my mute son.”

She scowled at him. “I'm a girl! And I don't want to be your stupid son.”

“You'll be whatever I tell you to be,” he shook her again, his eyes giving her a dangerous warning, “Do as I say and we'll make it there alive and with no questions asked.”

Arya curled her lips into a displeased snarl. If he shook her again, she was ready to pounce. Her hand went for Needle at her belt. The Hound found it first, ripping it from its sheath. “You leave this pin out of sight. You start any trouble and I'll be bringing Lady Arryn a lovely little wolf corpse.”

He released her and returned her sword. Arya did as he bid and uttered not a single word, instead shooting a thousand invisible barbs at him with her narrowed eyes. The Hound sighed, the trip up the Vale would be a long one indeed.

 

\------------------------------------------

The stout mule whined loudly as it was brought before Arya. The Hound shot her an amused grin, taking cruel pleasure in her dissatisfaction. She crossed her arms, staring at him with disbelief.

“Seven hells, what is that?” she whispered harshly as she approached the mule. It had already been equipped to ride, with a small satchel of supplies tied to the saddle. Sandor strode up next to it, the creature recoiled in fear as Stranger attempted to nip at his long ears.

“Your mount.” He threw a cloak at her, she failed to catch it and began quickly snatching it off the muddy ground.

“It's a bloody pack mule!” Arya mounted the animal with ease, it was much smaller than Craven.

“It's damned good at climbing mountain roads. Now shut up, or you can walk. We've got a ways to go until we reach your lady aunt and her sniveling new husband.” The Hound grumbled softly, taking a swig of a newly acquired wineskin.

“Husband?” 

He chuckled harshly through downturned, half burnt lips. “Lucky you, she-wolf. You'll get to meet your new uncle, Lord Littlefinger.” 

Arya could scarcely believe it, “Him? Yuck.” She made an all-too-loud retching noise and received a hard smack on her shoulder from the Hound. Her disgusted noises had attracted the attention of the stable hand who had sold them the mule.

“What did I say about staying quiet?” he hissed at her. The man was approaching them. Sandor and Arya made to leave when they were stopped by his hollering.

“Hey you two! It's dangerous to travel the Vale these days without an escort!” he ran up to them. The stable-hand was a short, but burly man. He had a mangled, nest of a beard decorated with several different types of hay. He seemed harmless, despite the axe at his hip.

The Hound drew his sword, staring the man down, “Here's our escort.” 

Before the man could say anything else, Sandor galloped off with Arya awkwardly trotting behind him on her mule.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Arya didn't leave the Hound? What if he wasn't so very injured after the inn? What if Arya stayed with him and decided that he really does love Sansa? What if together they rescue her?

 

The setting sun cast its distinct orange hue across the mountain road. The Bloody Gate was silhouetted in the distance and Sandor had decided to stop for the night. The goings had been rough on Stranger and on himself as well. Arya took every opportunity to complain about her mule, taking for granted the ease in which he climbed the steeper parts of the road. There were several times he had come close to shoving her down the steep cliffs. They had found a small cave in the surrounding wilderness, it was close enough to the road yet far enough away to offer minor protection from anyone with ill intentions.

“We're stopping now? The gates are right there!” The she-wolf would not dismount and eyed him rudely, silently accusing him of cowardice.

He ignored the foul-tempered wolf and instead began to build a fire, taking careful steps to avoid potential burnings. Arya would not let up.

“We could probably make it there before dawn, if you weren't such a big stupid--”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” he interrupted with a hurried whisper, “Someone's coming.”

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_ Arya thought as she swiftly dismounted and drew Needle. The Hound cast an angry glance at her, pointed to the cave and then back to her. She ignored his silent orders and instead crawled into the bushes, waiting for the ambush. Arya was anything but craven, now was good time to put her needlework to the test. She'd already killed a man with the Hound, she could handle a few more.

He too was crouched, sword drawn and ready to attack. Arya could hear it now, the rustling of footsteps headed to their campsite. The Hound's sword caught the sharp light of the dying sun as it lunged forward, connecting with the blade of a great axe. He was a large man, almost as tall as the Hound himself, his armor was adorned with the teeth of various animals and two great ram horns stuck out of his helm.

The brute rammed the blunt and of his great axe into the Hound, nearly knocking him over. His eyes were shining, gleaming with deranged enjoyment as he went in for a counter attack.

“Fear cuts deeper than swords.” Arya whispered before she burst forth from the brush, lunging at the clansman's side, thrusting the pointy end into his gut. Her sword was met with hard boiled leather, and failed to penetrate.

Sandor noticed the clansman's momentary lapse of concentration. As the mountain savage turned to deal with the wolf-bitch dancing around him, he went in for the killing blow. As cleaved through the man, he noticed a shiny point sticking out of the side of his neck. The blood sprayed them both as the clansman fell, Arya bent down to retrieve her sword from the bloody mess that was once a man.

“I told you to stay in the cave.” He managed to say through hurried breaths.

The she-wolf sheathed her gore soaked needle, wiping the blood and sweat from her brow.

“Bugger you and that cave.” She grumbled, mocking his own mannerisms.

The Hound opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the sound of more movement. This time coming from the road.

“HALT! Show yourselves!” someone cried out.

 

\-----------------------------------

Arya creeped up to the edge of the woods, on the road were several men in full-plate. Their blue standards displaying the proud falcon of House Arryn. One man was studying the ground, he had found their tracks and undoubtedly heard the clamor of the fight. The man who spoke was flanked by two others, pointing loaded crossbows in her direction. She heard the Hound lumbering past her onto the road, the hood of his cloak covering his face, she soon followed.

The knight eyed them suspiciously upon seeing their blood soaked weapons, he gestured them forward.

“Found ourselves a lone mountain man.” The Hound stated, unmoving.

“The Vale is no place for a man and child to travel alone,” the knight moved forward, “Headed to the Gate?”

“We have business in the Eyrie,” he explained, “Extra security for Lord Baelish, from Kings Landing.

The Hound glared at the knight, he was standing in front of him and could see his face clearly now. “I thought you deserted, Dog.”

He growled a reply she could not make out. Arya silently watched the exchange between the Hound and the knight. He seemed to be buying their story, though Arya was confidant that she could lie much better than the Hound. The knight signaled to the crossbowmen to lower their weapons.

“Don't know why you've bothered to come at all, Clegane, Lady Arryn is dead.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Arya didn't leave the Hound? What if he wasn't so very injured after the inn? What if Arya stayed with him and decided that he really does love Sansa? What if together they rescue her?

Although Arya had never met her mother's sister, she was still saddened by the news. Who would kill Lady Lysa, why? The Hound was asking the same questions to the knight, who's name she discovered was Ser Chadwyn of some place Arya didn't bother to remember. She couldn't help but wonder if the Hound would still try to get a ransom, or even let her reveal herself. 

“He's made himself Lord Protector, until the little lord Robert comes of age.” The Knight shifted his weight causing the cage they were ascending in to sway, they were only about a hundred feet up but a fall would still be fatal.

Ser Chadwyn continued on about the state of affairs at the Eyrie, her aunt had been killed by a singer. Thrown out of something called a 'moon door', whatever that is, Arya thought to herself. They stopped talking about her aunt and she became disinterested, content to stare out at the mountains.

Sandor, however, was listening to the chatty knight. He would not give the she-wolf over to Littlefinger, not until he knew what his intentions would be. Despite himself, he had come to actually care a little about what became of her once they reached the Eyrie. He told himself it was for the reward, though for some reason, he felt responsible for the stupid wolf's well-being. She had the makings of a killer, something he had seen time and time again in Gregor.

“Everything was just fine until Lord Baelish and his little daughter came along, Robert wasn't having nearly as many fits--”

“Littlefinger doesn't have a daughter.” Sandor muttered to himself, Chadwyn heard him however and continued on.

“She's baseborn, and a pretty little thing too. I hear she's got a nice set of bastard teats.” 

Arya rolled her eyes. She failed to see the appeal of an ample bosom. She tried to imagine herself with such and could hardly understand how she would be able to fight anyone with those things flapping about under her armor. It would be much too distracting. Arya hoped she would never grow anything as useless as breasts. 

Chadwyn went on about Littlefinger's bastard and her stupid teats until the Hound interrupted him.

“Can this thing go any faster?” He scowled at the knight. 

“Afraid not.” Ser Chadwyn got the hint and the three ascended the rest of the way in silence.

 

  


 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Arya didn't leave the Hound? What if he wasn't so very injured after the inn? What if Arya stayed with him and decided that he really does love Sansa? What if together they rescue her?

Sandor and Arya had finally arrived at the Eyrie. Their relief was short-lived however, as they were soon escorted from the warm Crescent Chamber into the High Hall. The hall was full of servants, knights and guards, yet seemed to hold no life at all. The death of Lady Arryn was fresh in the minds of all residents of the Vale, more so within those of the Eyrie.

“Something isn't right...” Arya whispered to the Hound. He seemed to pick up on it as well, and shifted cautiously. Though they were high in the mountains, the air in the hall was still and stagnant. Several serving wenches were setting up for the evening's supper, many guards were chatting amongst themselves, a group of servants lead by young brown-haired woman were raising a massive tapestry. 

“What an interesting surprise,” Petyr Baelish trotted up to the pair, “I thought both dogs had been put down.”

“What are you talking about Baelish?” The Hound eyed him suspiciously.

Littlefinger shot back a devilish smile, “Haven't you heard about your brother, Sandor?” 

The slim man placed his arm deftly behind the Hound's back, gesturing follow to an alcove at the edge of the hall. Arya was not sure whether she should follow, Littlefinger had not paid her any attention. She snuck over near the alcove, catching back up with their conversation.

“...but he fell from the poison on the Viper's spear. I hate to be the bearer of such bad tidings, I know how close you two were.” 

Littlefinger wore a dangerous grin, not to be outdone by the horrible expression painted upon the Hound's scarred face. Ser Gregor was dead. Arya almost felt sorry for the Hound, she knew how much he wanted to slay his monstrous brother. She was relieved though, Arya had seen first-hand what he was like. No one would mourn the Mountain, just as no one would mourn any of the villagers he killed, or Lommy Greenhands. Her chest swelled with a morbid satisfaction, at least there had been vengeance.

“I see you've been hurt, trouble along the way?” 

“You could say that.” Sandor noticed Arya eavesdropping and gave her a warning stare. Littlefinger could not know who she was, he was certain of that now. Even if he did reveal her, there would be no chance at getting and type of reward out of Petyr Baelish's wormy little hands. 

“You're welcome to stay here until you've fully healed, Maester Colemon can attend to your wounds. Though I'm afraid we have no need for a Hound here in the Eyrie...” Littlefinger followed Sandor's gaze, squinting at the child the man was staring at, “Who's this?”

“A stowaway,” he said blankly, “she's looking for work.”

Littlefinger rose and left the Hound to brood upon his brother's demise. He came upon Arya, who tried to look like a competent servant, it was Harrenhall all over again. This time though, she had Needle. His soft fingers gripped her dirty chin, lifting her head so she could meet his eyes. He seemed to be inspecting her face, eyes narrowing and tracing every curve and crevice. The Hound did not even seem to notice. Arya knew at once that she would kill him if he left her in this place with this slimy man. 

“How old is she?”

“Bugger if I know.” muttered the Hound from within the alcove. 

“Eleven.” She saw no sense in playing the mute at this point. Baelish studied her once more, and smiled, satisfied. He led her back into the busy main area of the hall.

“There's no way you can do anything looking like that,” He brushed her cheek with his knuckle, Arya twitched uncomfortably, “Alayne!”

The girl overseeing the tapestry began walking toward them, it was at this point Arya finally noticed how filthy she had become. She stared at her hands, fingernails crusted over with dirt and blood, palms still bruised and bloodied from the fight in the woods. 

“Darling daughter, can you see to it that this girl is bathed and clothed properly. Then send her to kitchens, Odessa will know what to do with her.” 

Arya was jolted from her thoughts by the grasp on her arm, she was being led out of the High Hall and down winding corridors. “...don't understand how you could get so dirty. Is that blood? It might take more than one bath to get you clean.”

She felt as though she'd played this part before, the scene felt like a long lost routine. Suddenly halting, she gazed up at the young woman who held her arm, her complaints were far too familiar. Something was not right. The girl let loose her grip and brought the hand to her mouth in a tiny gasp. “Arya?”

“Seven hells, Sansa?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Arya didn't leave the Hound? What if he wasn't so very injured after the inn? What if Arya stayed with him and decided that he really does love Sansa? What if together they rescue her?

Sansa Stark pulled her bewildered sister down the hall, shushing her every attempt to talk. Not here, not now. Alayne did not have a little sister, if father found out...she pushed that thought back. Arya. She was so ragged and dirty, there was blood on her hands, in her hair and on her tunic. Was that a sword? Her tummy fluttered nervously, had that been her blood or someone else's? Why had she come here? More importantly, how? The questions needed answers, so she set for her chambers, clinging tightly onto the tattered girl's arm. Sansa prayed to the Mother, hoping they would not be spotted.

“Alayne! Hold on, I need to talk to you...” Sansa kept on walking, trying to ignore the calls of Myranda Royce, but the girl persisted. 

“Alayne? Who's that? Wait!”

She quickened her pace, feeling guilty about ignoring her friend, but Randa would have to wait. When they reached her bedchambers, Sansa barred the door. Shouting to her friend from behind the massive door.

“Randa, please, we can talk later.” She could not hear the girl's reply, but when she heard footsteps fading, she knew they were safe.

“Why does everyone keep calling you Alayne?” her sister asked, perched atop her bed.

Sansa began to pace, she made circles around her chambers, “Because that's my name now.”

Arya made a face, “Alayne is a stupid name. I like Sansa better.”

She pulled her sister from the bed into a sobbing embrace. She stroked the back of Arya's head, despite the fine coating of dirt that clung to her choppy hair. Sansa held her close, her crying interrupted by muffled whispers.

“I can't believe it's you.”

Arya began to feel her own eyes get warm, and willed herself not to start crying as well. Only the weak cry, and she was anything but. Sansa though, she was actually glad to see her. Arya could pinch herself, never had she felt that happy to see her elder sister. She could feel her trying to let go and Arya released a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding. Sansa tried to compose herself. 

She rolled her teary eyes and gigged lightly as she pulled at the fabric of Arya's shirt, “I can get you new clothes if you want, and a bath.” Before she could answer, Sansa went off into the small attached bathing chamber and began to select oils and appropriate soaps. The Eyrie suddenly didn't seem so awful. Arya was sure she would be content to stay here with her sister should the Hound leave her here to rot. She shook her head, the Hound was the last person she wanted to think about at a time like this. Her life suddenly started to feel, she dared herself to think, normal.

“You better not put me in a dress!” 

 

\-------------------------------

Sansa Stark could not get her sister into a dress. Struck by the horrible nostalgia of the entire situation, she couldn't help but laugh. She had found small-clothes for Arya but she refused to even put on the simplest of night dresses. The hours had began to drag on as the two sisters sat comfortably in front of the hearth, Arya regaling her tale of escape from Kings Landing. Sansa's eyes went wide with excitement when she told her of the adventure with Yoren and gasping in horror as she told the tale of her time spent at Harrenhall.

“Arya! That's awful! All those people, with a pot of soup? I can't believe you...” she trailed off, disturbed at the fact her sister had killed several men, no, many men. Sansa would hear no more of her tales of murder.

Arya sighed, perhaps her sister would never understand. After all, she could hardly imagine Sansa doing any of the things she did if their roles were reversed. It was probably a good thing Sansa stayed in Kings Landing after all, if it were not for her, king Joffrey would still be alive. Another hour flew by.

“This Gendry sounds very gallant.” Sansa grinned.

“I hate him and he left me, so he doesn't matter anyways.” Arya wouldn't look at her, but continued on with the story regardless. She had just gotten to the part where she was taken to Berric Dondarrion.

“Arya, I really don't think Lord Berric was immune to death.”

She stood up in protest, “He was too! Thoros of Myr could bring him back. Even after he fell to the Hou--” 

The sisters were knocked out of their stories by a heavy knocking on the great wooden door. Sansa rushed Arya into a hiding place and motioned to her to stay silent. The door opened and Arya could almost see the man who had come inside, but she recognized the voice. It was Petyr Baelish. 

“I came to bid you good-night Alayne.” 

Sansa fidgeted with her hair, “Y-yes father, good-night.” She gave him a small peck on the lips.

“Are you feeling alright, is it too cold in here for you sweetling? I can get someone to bring up more kindling for your fireplace.” He lightly stroked her arm, and though she was cloaked by a massive curtain, Arya could see clearly through the small gaps of the fabric.

“No, I'm quite fine. Thank you.” Littlefinger pulled Sansa in closer to him, pressing his lips onto hers. Arya glared at him from behind her hiding place and wanted more than anything to shove Needle right into is stupid face. 

“Goodnight Alayne.” He finally whispered, leaving. Sansa retreated to her bed, crying softly as Arya went to bar the door. 

It was Arya's turn to pace now, she needed to get her head straight. Something was not right here. Littlefinger was certainly NOT her sister's father and had no right to touch her so. She was filling with rage, urged on by the soft weeping of her sister on the bed. She went to her. 

“Sansa, we need to get out of here.” She nudged her sister out of her turmoil. Sansa stared at her, confused.

“I can't. I'm Alayne now. Lord Baelish's bastard daughter, this is my home now. Even if we were to leave, where would we go? How would we get out? Surely we would die trying...”

Arya cursed in frustration, why wouldn't her sister just listen? She hated to say it, but Sansa was right. They wouldn't make it on their own even if they did manage to leave the Vale. Why did it always come to this? Arya was just beginning to think she was done with the foul-tempered, bloody brute, but she begrudgingly admitted that actually needed him this time. She cursed again, louder this time.

Drawing Needle from her sword belt on the floor, she checked its sharpness and made for the exit. Her sister followed frantically, as she tried to open the door. “Arya wait, where are you going?”

“To find the Hound.”

Sansa froze, she could not stop her sister from running down the corridor. She could only stand there, trying desperately to convince herself that this was not a dream.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Arya didn't leave the Hound? What if he wasn't so very injured after the inn? What if Arya stayed with him and decided that he really does love Sansa? What if together they rescue her?

“Wake up! Wake up,” Sandor could almost feel a small foot kicking him in his side, “You bloody oaf!” 

That voice, he would never escape it. He had brought her all the way to the Eyrie, couldn't she just leave him alone? Seven hells, when did she become able to kick that hard? His eyes were momentarily blinded by the sunlight suddenly streaming in through the small window. Wasn't he just eating supper? His head was pounding, he had forgotten about the wine. Once again, he had managed to drink himself into oblivion, where he wouldn't have to think about his brother or the little bird.

He remembered now, turning to the drink when the shame hit him. Sandor Clegane had failed at the one task he'd set himself out to do. He'd lost the chance to kill his brother, and to a Dornishman! His head was cloudy, his vision blurred by the unexpected morning glow. If she kept kicking at him he swore he would break that skinny little wolf's neck. 

He tried to speak but the words came out in a jumble of incoherent growls.

“You stupid, drunken dog! WAKE UP!” 

Sandor reached out, quicker than he thought possible and tried to grab at her ankle. The small thump and curses he heard told him he was successful. He heard the ring of a sword being drawn and finally awoke. The she-wolf was standing over him, her stupid Needle pointed right at his ugly face. He could easily slice her to shreds, but could not seem to find his own sword. Bloody she-wolf, at least he'd given her a bloody lip.

“You've got a lot of nerve girl. Anyone ever tell you not to wake a sleeping dog?” 

She was talking to him, but he couldn't concentrate over the ringing in his ears and the throbbing pain in his head. Just when he had finally rid himself of the wolf-bitch, she returned kicking and screaming at him. What bloody luck he had.

“...and when he kisses her it's really gross. She doesn't like it here and if you don't help us I'm going to cut your bloody heart out.”

He rubbed at his aching temples, “What in seven hells are you talking about?”

The she-wolf groaned in annoyance, kicking him again, “SANSA! Littlefinger's bastard is Sansa, and I need to get her out of here. And if you don't help us--”

Sandor was certainly awake now, “Get my sword.” 

 

 ------------------------------

So the little bird had flown to the Eyrie and her damned sister had forgotten where her cage was. 

“Shut up, it was dark. All these doors look the same!” The she-wolf was leading him through a maze of servants quarters, unable to access any room so far. The girl jammed the key into another lock, cursing when it would not yield. Sandor was done with this nonsense, if Sansa Stark was indeed in the castle, then he would find her himself. 

“What are you doing?” she called to him as he marched down the opposite end of the corridor. 

“Splitting up.” As Sandor turned the corner, he could just hear the she-wolf curse as she moved on to another door. 

He managed to find his way to the sept, but found it empty. Sitting down on an ornately carved bench, he gazed up at the delicately carved face of the Maiden. He felt as though the world was on its side, remembering the last time he had seen his little bird. He winced at the memory, her eyes wide with fear and pity as she sung him a hymn of mercy. She would not go with him then, she could not even look at him. How could he be sure she would leave with him now? 

Soft footsteps made their way into the sept, and a small voice echoed through the ornate paneled walls. Jarring him from his thoughts.

“You're really here...” 

His little bird. There she was, perhaps even more beautiful than when he had last seen her. Time had been good to Sansa Stark, womanhood suited her well. Her eyes were still big and blue, but situated in a much less childlike face. He could feel his eyes wander over her newly acquired figure, betraying him as he tried desperately to make his mouth form sentences. 

He stood. Though still a good foot above her, she seemed much less small and meek. As she calmly walked over to him, he braced himself for a much deserved smack in the face. Their last encounter had been anything but pleasant. He felt a pang of guilt for having once again cursed her with awful visage.

Sansa Stark had mustered up what little courage she had left, and approached the silent beast. His grey eyes were piercing her, leaving her feeling far too exposed. She had often dreamed of him, though she would never admit to it. He seemed so tense. She instinctively went to cup his cheek, her hand in the air before her mind could protest. 

“Little bird.” He whispered, as he caught her by the wrist before she could touch him. Seven hells, there was no turning back now. 

Sandor didn't care who spotted them as they fled down the hall, she was his now and this time he would not be leaving without her. They did, however, need to find her enraged little sister before she broke down every door in the bloody castle.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Arya didn't leave the Hound? What if he wasn't so very injured after the inn? What if Arya stayed with him and decided that he really does love Sansa? What if together they rescue her?

The little bird had darkened her hair. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did, but as he followed her down the Eyrie's winding corridors he couldn't help but miss the way the sun used to catch her fiery tresses back in Kings Landing. It was always a dangerous invitation, taunting him with each step she took. It was dull and dark now, so unlike her. 

He had to quickly stop himself from stumbling into her as she came to a sudden halt, a door had been wrenched open further down the hall. They could hear noises coming from inside the room, a man and girl and the sounds of steel. Sandor drew his own sword. Wherever that she-wolf seemed to end up, trouble was not far behind.

As he stalked up to the open door, he felt a small hand on his arm, trying to pull him back.

“No, please, I can take care of this.” Before he could answer her, the little bird gracefully strolled into her chambers. 

“Oh, what's going on here?” Sansa feigned surprise. 

The room was in shambles, the contents of the wardrobe strewn about on the floor while some of her clothing had been thrown into leather satchels. Her lady aunt's jewels were suspiciously missing. Arya. Her sister had her sword drawn, slashing at the unfortunate guard who was beginning to look quite dizzy from chasing her about. 

“I caught this little thief in your chambers...” He tried to grab at her, she tumbled behind him, “Gah, hold still you little bitch!”

Arya shot her a wicked smile and thrust her sword into the guard's leg, this time Sansa was actually surprised, “Oh! Guards help this man!” 

Arya was very close to stabbing the guard again when she felt large hands grab at the back of her vest, the Hound lifted her off her feet. He had a cold smile on his retched face and shook her until Needle went clamoring to the floor. 

“Looks like you have a rat problem, _my lady._ ” She tried to kick at him, but he held her out too far.

“Put me down!” He ignored her.

Sansa helped the guard to his feet, “Thank you very much ser.” 

The man eyed Sandor with suspicion, “Who's this?”

“Lord Baelish's new guard,” The Hound replied, staring the man down, “Guess he needed a man who could hold his own against little girls.” Sandor shook the she-wolf again for good measure. The guard took his leave, limping and embarrassed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Arya didn't leave the Hound? What if he wasn't so very injured after the inn? What if Arya stayed with him and decided that he really does love Sansa? What if together they rescue her?

 

The whole morning had been a blur, one moment she had been on her way to the sept and then next trying to save Arya from being killed by one of her father's guards. No, not her father, Alayne's father. Her chamber's were a mess and she would have been able to pack more efficiently had her sister not gone through all of her belongings already. Where were the warmer dresses? The furs? Which boots would be more durable? Sansa could barely think over the mess, turning instead to the wardrobe and began tying her hair up.

She caught the Hound's eyes in the mirror and could feel the flush rising up her cheeks. The morning sun hid none of his burned features, his suffering clear as day. It was a reminder of what she had chosen, there was no turning back. Sandor Clegane was a harsh and brutal man, his honesty had once tore at the very fiber of her reality. He was a man who had held her at knifepoint and yet he would not strike her. He had taken her song, but brought back her family. Sansa would leave with him this time, for reasons she felt were far more frightening than anything that could be mentioned aloud.

“Find the bird something plain to wear.”

Arya was still rummaging, stopping every so often to hold up a garment and inspect it. She would have to get the warmer clothes, not just for Sansa but herself as well. It was a frustrating search, all she seemed to have were stupid dresses. Didn't she have any pants or vests? Her eyes searched the room for any drawer or compartment she had left unopened. She spied a cedar chest, tucked away near the window.

“Finally.” It was full of cloaks and various furs. She threw a few warmer looking ones into her pack. She came across a few items too small for Sansa, a blouse here and there, nightdresses and the like. Arya figured she could slice the bottom off one of the smaller dresses for herself, it would make a perfect shirt. The cloaks at the bottom was what she was after though. Some were useless, thin pieces of silk, others more thick and practical. The one at the very bottom was far to big to have been Sansa's. It was disgusting and dirty, and smelled of smoke and blood. Arya could tell it once had been white, but it had been turned a dull grey by whatever unimaginable things it had been through. 

She threw it into the middle of the room and made a face,“What is that rag?”

Sansa stopped tying her hair and stared wide-eyed at the cloak on the floor. She had not even given it a thought until now, and oh, he had seen it too. Their eyes met again and she quickly looked away, embarrassed. He wasn't supposed to know, he wasn't even supposed to have returned. Arya had found it, she would never understand. Sansa was ashamed, her sister would not need to have such a thing around to make her feel safe. Arya had her sword and she had nothing but the tattered remains of a memory. It was almost too much for her as she saw him reach for it out of the corner of her eye.

He knew what it was the moment the she-wolf discarded it to the center of the room. As he held it in his hands, that night began to replay in his mind, as it had many times before. The scents adding a new layer to his recurring nightmare. There had been fire everywhere, more than he had ever seen. It was all very vivid to him now, being reduced to the eight year old in the coals when he should have been fighting a battle. The wine had not settled him, not when all he could think about were the flames and her. He had gone to her chambers a drunken terrified mess, trying to finally take for himself what would likely be denied otherwise. He left her with his cloak, his Kingsguard cloak, with his tail between his legs and feeling no better than the fools who had worn it with pride. The same so-called knights that beat his little bird, instead of protecting her.

She had turned around finally, bringing her eyes to his face. He held her gaze with his, she would see him this time, really see him. Now was as good a time as any to live up to what he had promised her that night. He would keep her safe. No one would hurt her again, or he would kill them. He buckled on the ash and blood stained cloak, his heart racing far faster than he cared to acknowledge.

“It's mine.” 

“That's _yours_?” 

The cloak did suit him well, it was ugly, smelly and slightly burned. Why did Sansa have it? Arya shifted uncomfortably on the floor. No one was speaking, they were just  _staring_ at each other. Seven hells, what was wrong with him? Stupid Hound. She was getting frustrated now, time was not something that was on their side and they seemed insistent on wasting it. Arya grabbed the nearest dress and flung it at Sansa, who barely caught it as one of the sleeves slapped limply across her face.

“Go get ready or something,” she gave the Hound an impatient look. He was staring her down now, clearly annoyed about something Arya could care less about. Sansa scampered off, her face a mess of scarlet. The Hound walked over to her, and she stood to face him, trying to make herself taller. 

“You best watch yourself, this won't be like the way up here. We've got the little bird now.” 

“So?” She snapped.

“So the wolf-bitch better not do anything stupid that gets her sister killed. You understand me?”

Arya growled at him. Why did he always assume she would do something stupid? Sansa couldn't even use a sword, but he wasn't snarling at her. No, he preferred to just stare at her. She wanted to warn him not to do anything stupid, but knew it would just earn her a smack on the head.

Sansa returned, dressed plainly as the Hound had suggested. The three of them finished their packing and set out, hoping to reach the stables before anyone noticed their absence.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Arya didn't leave the Hound? What if he wasn't so very injured after the inn? What if Arya stayed with him and decided that he really does love Sansa? What if together they rescue her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After picking this story back up again, I am hoping to stay true to the comment fic style of short and concise paragraphs. Once again, I own nothing and enjoy!

They stopped at the armory first. It was just a short distance to the stables, and Sandor knew the little wolf would need protection if they found themselves in a fight while attempting to leave the castle. He found a small wooden buckler and tossed it to her. The girl strapped it to her arm, testing its weight, nodding her approval. It seemed to be light enough for her to be effective in her so-called “dancing” while still offering a decent amount of cover from incoming blows or arrows. 

He went over the escape plans in his head, making sure he wasn't forgetting any detail. The she-wolf needed a horse this time, her sister as well, they could travel faster and hopefully put themselves far ahead of any pursuit. Taking the alternate path down the mountains would be ideal, it was longer but less travelled. The only problem would be the clansmen that inhabited the land around the road, but that was what the protection was for. If only the little bird had some martial skill like her sister, he thought.

Sansa tentatively held up a small dagger. Her blue eyes went wide as she felt the blade in her hand, light and heavy at the same time, perfectly balanced. Petyr would often carry a dagger on him, as for why, she could not say. _Our enemies are everywhere._ She sheathed it quietly, and tucked it into the pouch she wore around her waist. 

The Hound and her sister were donning their armor in silence; plate and mail for the dog, padded leather for the wolf. Arya wore squire's armor, the only one small enough to fit her. It was remarkable how natural her sister seemed, testing her dexterity in the new equipment. So different, yet at the same time similar to the man beside her, testing the weight of his own armor. 

 

Outside, the castle grounds were bustling. Stablehands, smiths and servants all going about their daily duties, allowing them to pass by into the stables unnoticed. Sandor could not help but feel a bit uncomfortable at the the ease in which they were passing through. His charges had their disguises, his bird the serving wench and the wolf a retched squire. But, it shouldn't be this easy. Someone was bound to notice three horses being taken. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword as he peaked into the stable where Stranger was being kept. 

Empty, he could thank the gods if he believed in them. His warhorse was on the other side of the stable, away from the more docile animals closer to the entrance. The wolf girl and his bird were already preparing their horses by the time he reached and calmed Stranger down. 

“Much better than the mule,” Arya remarked as she climbed up onto the back of the horse she'd chosen. 

“What's wrong with Mya's mules?” The little bird chirped, still trying to secure the saddle onto her chosen horse.

She wasn't going fast enough, and the time they had alone in the stables was too precious to waste. Impatiently, the Hound rode up to her, dismounting to help. 

“I can do that,” she blushed. 

“We haven't the time,” he grumbled.

“Hurry up!” The she-wolf yelled, steering her horse toward the exit. 

Sansa's horse was becoming agitated, trying to move away as he buckled the saddle to its back. It happened quickly, Stranger did not take kindly to being in close proximity to the other horse, he went in for a bite and all seven hells broke loose. The mare kicked up wildly, roaring at the aggressive warhorse. He managed to pull the little bird away as she grabbed her pack off the stable floor, clutching it to her chest in panic. 

The quiet stable suddenly came alive with the commotion. He could hear the hurried footsteps of the approaching stablehands, coming to investigate. The sister was yelling, cursing and trying to maintain control of her own horse. He thought fast, grabbing hold of the bird's tiny waist and placing her quickly atop Stranger before he reared back again. In one quick swoop he joined behind her, and held her tightly to him.

The she-wolf was already out the door, making her way through the confused crowd. Somehow he heard the little bird whimper to herself, “Don't let go.” 

He almost chuckled, _as if I could little bird,_ and when he urged the destrier onwards he pulled her even closer. The wolf was close to the gates now, but he would have to carve the way through. A few guards were all that stood in the way of their freedom, swords drawn and ready to fight. The Hound laughed and the bird screamed as he ran them down, the she-wolf galloped past without a second glance at the bloodied men below. 

 

They rode for a while before Sansa finally relaxed, sighing gently and leaning back against his chest. She found him oddly comfortable, and knew he was the only one she'd trust with her life. Even now, sprinting down the mountain road, he held her safely atop his massive horse. Sansa was a caged bird no longer and felt a surge of gratitude. Sandor Clegane, a man feared for his ruthless reputation, somehow managed to return her family to her and rescue her all without asking for anything in return. 

She blushed fiercely when she thought of something he might want in return, after all, he had kissed her that night of the battle. There would be no harm in kissing him again, Sansa thought, and she realized she actually _wanted_ to. It might be the least she could do to show him her thanks, but it would have to do for now. Turning slightly in the saddle, she leaned her face in close to his with her lips almost touching the good side of his cheek. He must have felt her shift, because he moved his head just slightly to see what she was doing. To her surprise, she felt his own lips move beneath hers, kissing her back quickly but tentatively. 

Sansa's face flushed crimson, turning back to the road when he stopped kissing her. She became worried that she had distracted him from his riding, but when he pulled her closer to him, she was reassured. Her heart beat in time with the hooves galloping below her. Sansa kissed him again, this time on the cheek, silently hoping that Arya could not see.


End file.
